


the way wherein I walk

by InfiniteCalm



Category: Grantchester (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Illness, M/M, Mention of previous abusive relationship, Period-Typical Homophobia, Vignettes, judy garland fandom, long awaited daniel backstory, not explicitly but mind yourselves, poetry as a metaphor for homosexual urges, they have friends!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:07:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24144883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InfiniteCalm/pseuds/InfiniteCalm
Summary: A Year in the Life of Daniel Marlowe, as things begin to settle.
Relationships: Leonard Finch/Daniel Marlowe
Comments: 9
Kudos: 31





	the way wherein I walk

**Author's Note:**

> Read the tags please, some parts of this aren't the easiest! Section one deals with illness (so not great in the current climate) and section two deals with a past abusive relationship. It's not explicit but it is there, so look out for yourselves x
> 
> Work title from a paraphrase of Psalm 143:8, section titles at the end.

1958

> February: The Art of Losing

Leonard liked to touch the back of his head when they kissed, which Daniel loved. The feeling of a hand there, against his hair; it was nice. All Daniel ever had to do was exhale differently, or mention something once, and – it was a kind of miracle. He’d never had that kind of thing before. He didn’t think many men like them had. An easy kind of compassion, a memory for what’s good and bad, and a give and take.

When they were alone it was a radical humility, a laying-bare which didn’t seem to cost him anything at all, though it must have. And it was good to remember when one or both of them were being too insufferable to bear.

It was a kind of miracle, too, when he got sick in September and Len was there through it, save for when he really had to do his job. There, and actually worth something – he was an orderly at a hospital during the war, which Daniel would never forget again.

The fever that had been a constant companion for a week and a half broke during the night. Daniel, who had been insensible and immobile on his bed, in pain and miserable, now heard the quiet prayers of thanks , the manc accent soft as Leonard wiped his brow, sat him up carefully and pressed a mug of water into his hands.

“You had me scared, love,” he said, and Daniel had looked and seen the evidence of that. Fingernails bitten down to their beds, a hollow look to the face.

“Sorry,” was all he managed.

“It’s not your fault, my darling,” Leonard said.

He had had to leave early the next morning to do a funeral. When the Doctor arrived, he was surprised to see Daniel sitting up, though he was mostly too weak to do anything. He moved down to sleep on the sofa; the stairs were a lot of work, and it was more effort than it was worth to evade pointed questions if Len had come by for longer than absolutely necessary. Caring for a parishioner who had nobody else was one thing; helping them when they were nearly recovered was quite another.

It took him a long time to recuperate, and the relief was palpable on Leonard’s face by the end of the next week, when he managed to walk down to the end of the garden path and back.

“I nearly died, didn’t I.” Daniel said, over tea, after that excitement. He had a blanket over his legs, like an invalid. Leonard demurred to answer, shaking his head, and saying nice, encouraging things, and then looked at the table and heaved a sigh.

“You were very ill. The fever was – you were delirious. You kept apologising; you didn’t know what you were saying. And it was – I was worried that you might get brain damage. But you didn’t, darling.”

Daniel didn’t know what to do with this information. He’d come close to death before, of course. You didn’t spend all that time in the men’s loos not to have a close call at least once, and he wasn’t stupid enough to think he’d have survived a jury trial for the crime of which he was accused, but – there was a difference between that and this, somehow. Suddenly the fact that he lived alone and was afraid to be nursed was thrown into greater relief. He was thirty-five, and divorced, and a small business owner, and his family all lived far away, and his precious few friends didn’t even know he was sick.

Leonard had gone pale, and was clutching at his sleeve, tugging it down over his hand, mouth small and thin.

“And thank Heavens I didn’t,” Daniel said, trying to smile. But he was still exhausted, and the effort died half-way. “Help me up the stairs, would you, Len? I need a lie down, I think.”

Leonard gamely helped, and Daniel managed to get up to his bed without too much hassle. He himself had lost weight, which was to be expected, but as Len carefully hung up his jacket and lay down beside him – not for too long, there was another service to prepare for – Daniel felt the reappearance of the ribs he’d hoped long-lost under his hands.

“It must have been horrible for you,” he said, eventually. If it had been the other way around, Leonard lying there dying, not knowing what he was saying, and Daniel all alone and trying his best and not having anyone to make tea or swap out, in the middle of the night and no help coming… if Daniel _had_ died, what could Leonard have done? And there would be maybe eight people in the world who knew what it would have been, for him, eight and the vague sympathies of the Vicarage… he understood, all at once, the overjoyed little prayer from the bedside… imagined the previous ones, don’t let him die like this, don’t… Daniel shifted over to face Leonard, who still looked a sight, and embraced him.

Maybe there was a way to phrase what he wanted to say. Daniel didn’t find it, before drifting off. When he woke up the next morning, he found himself in his pyjamas, tucked in carefully, with a new book on the nightstand. Oh, he thought, he could cry; he didn’t think there was a person in the world so well loved as he.

> May: this is not somewhere else but here

Two times in his life he was pretty sure it was all over for good and forever; the war, and Bill.

He sometimes got sudden memories of the bombs and the mud, and the town they drove through which was so flattened – the smell of cement dust could bring him back, or on fragile days a particular light on the water, or a song.

Bill was altogether much worse. It didn’t bear repeating, really. He’d already implied it wasn’t a good story, and Leonard had nodded and said the perfect thing, about being ready to hear it when Daniel was ready to tell it, and hadn’t brought it up again. Though there was still a strange sort of guilt, hovering over it all, despite the assurances.

Ever since he’d been sick it was like everything had just come to the surface and some days, he did still find it hard to breath, and every night that week it’d been nightmare after nightmare, and tonight, Leonard was sleeping so peacefully (he slept, even, as if there was something holding him back – on his back, hands by his side, quietly) but the heat of another body was completely unbearable. Suffocation. (God). Daniel wanted to get out of the bed, but he found he couldn’t move, and there was nothing to do but breath very loudly and try not to scream. Fists bunched up.

Eventually the paralysis passed, and he felt like his skin had settled back onto his bones. A few deep breaths and he sat up and began to pull back the sheets.

Leonard stirred, and Daniel froze. There was a moment where they could have carried on; Daniel could have crept out of the room, Leonard could have continued to feign sleep.

“You alright?” Leonard mumbled, opening his eyes. Daniel drew the sheets back over them again.

He was quiet. Choices to be made. Fists, clenched. He straightened his hand, and put one on Leonard’s, who held it tightly.

“Not really.”

“Poor Daniel,” Leonard said entirely sincerely. “Tell me.”

“You remember I mentioned my first – friend, after the divorce.”

“Yes,” Leonard said, more alert now, turning his head to look at him.

“He used to – he wasn’t very. He wasn’t very nice to me.”

Leonard had used this exact phraseology before, had used the exact cadence and emphasis, he knew what “he wasn’t very nice to me” entailed, knew the kind of experiences, or a similar set of them - maybe could have extrapolated. Had extrapolated if the look of pure grief on his face was anything to go by. Daniel knew that look too; he’d felt it on his own face. I didn’t want this to have happened to you, too.

Leonard brought Daniel’s hand up to his lips and kissed it. “I don’t need to tell you that he was wrong, do I? Maybe I do. He was, anyway. Imagine, not being nice to you,” he said, and turned over onto his side, still holding onto Daniel. “Do you want to tell me anymore? It’s alright if you don’t. I won’t push you.”

Daniel thought about not dredging up those old stories. It would have been good not to have to; God knows he hadn’t told anyone like this before, not in full. He could have maybe given a brief outline and never talk about it again, and Leonard would surely have accepted it, in his way.

“I’ll be honest,” Daniel began, instead. “But it’s not an easy listen. If you’d rather not, I understand.”

Leonard didn’t say anything, but didn’t avert his eyes, either.

After his divorce, which had not been easily won, Daniel had been miserable, working for a hard-boiled bastard in a swanky studio near Kensington, where the upwardly mobile would berate him for not kowtowing to them and the girls who came in for the more – here he pauses – unsavoury images treated him like he wasn’t there, and to cap it all, his own work was found by some poor confused little man and handed in to the police, which resulted in not only the destruction of the negatives, but the loss of £5, and his job.

And in came Bill; tall, dark, handsome, and dry, photographer’s assistant. I’ll get you a job, he said, and did. There were stories going round about him, but Daniel only found that out much later, when he had some friends of his own.

“Robbie and David,” Daniel said, when Len asked. “And Georgie when he came along, and Pat. And poor Michael.”

Leonard pressed his fingers together and Daniel could see the dim light from the full moon filtering through the gap in the curtains. Leonard’s lips moved, though he made no sound. Michael, who they never found. He had known Leonard prayed for all their friends, but there was a sort of sweet ache at the sight of it. They’d never met, but Leonard still prayed for him. Maybe he was the only one in the world who did.

To go on with the story. This was before he knew any of his friends, and all he had were the acquaintances at the bars and some of the performers he worked with, and Bill. Who was so funny and, not to put too fine a point on it – very desirable, very sexy, very free with it all. And Daniel hadn’t been, at that stage.

“You know what it’s like, when you’ve only just woken up to how you are, and then there’s all this – feeling in you.” Daniel said. “And it’s… I loved my wife, you know, just not how I was supposed to, but I didn’t know what that _was,_ and then the sexual feelings, too, and it was all at once.”

Daniel only realised he was shaking when Leonard sat up and pulled him along, carefully holding his hand, arm around his shoulders.

“I know.” Leonard said. “I know.”

And it seemed very - but still good. It _wasn’t_ bad, it just wasn’t – what he had thought it would be, what it had been with Vicky – and that was only to be expected, wasn’t it.

To skip past a few months -

“A few months?”

And then Bill suggested that it would save money and time if he were to just move in with him, and OK yes it would, and Bill had a darkroom so he could develop his art photos there, and then. It didn’t end well. End of the 40s, rationing still ongoing, the trade routes with India still slow and disrupted; the price of things went up, and that was a problem for a lot of them in the circles Daniel was desperately trying to get out of; it was a problem for Bill. And so – listen, the rest of it is easy to guess. One night. One night, the door was –

“You don’t have to say it out loud,” Leonard told him, as Daniel continued to shake, “you tell me what you can. I’m listening.”

Daniel tried to continue, to finish the story, but he didn’t want Leonard to know; enough that he knew the basics, surely – the words didn’t arrive, anyhow, just more shakes, and a lump in his throat that burned.

“Cry all you need to, hey?” Leonard said, and then both of his arms were around Daniel, who turned into them and cried his eyes out.

“I’m so _sorry_ ,” he said, eventually, and Leonard did the mother hen thing he was so good at, with the clucking and the “never mind about that” and the “I’m just glad you got it out of your system.”

“No,” Daniel said, “I pushed you too hard when you weren’t ready for it. The same thing he did, Oh God, I swore I’d never,” and Leonard calmly pushed the damp hair back off Daniel’s forehead and it almost seemed like he was too measured to be properly taking that in, but when he replied, his voice was shaking.

“You didn’t push me further than I wanted to go. When I said no, you said OK. If I felt unsafe, you know I wouldn’t be here, darling. You’re nothing but good to me.”

That was true. Daniel’s heart gradually calmed itself; he stopped trembling. The bed was warm. The night outside wasn’t as bright as it had been. They were still breathing together, though Leonard didn’t let go of his hand. Probably he was a little upset at what he’d learned. It might take him a few days to process it all – God knew Daniel was under it for longer than that.

“We should go and see Georgie and Pat the next chance we get,” Leonard said. “We’ve gone a long time without seeing any of your friends.”

Georgie and Pat. If there was anyone who could help him put things back into perspective…

> August: Admit this much—that they were kind to strangers

Clemmie (Short for – Clementine, maybe? Daniel didn’t actually know; she was Leonard’s friend first) was charming, and the short hair suited her well. The assembled crowd at the library might have made assumptions if not for the fact that she was a poet. Poets could not be expected to dress conventionally. Or at least, if they did dress conventionally, it would have been a great disappointment.

Leonard was sitting up at the front, in case of any problems arising. Next to him was Jo the head librarian, a tall woman who happened to share a pretty little house with Clemmie, and behind them, everyone else. A suspiciously young crowd, Daniel thought, all past pupils of the secondaries around the area, or the occasional student from town. Of course the usual audience for this kind of thing as well, old people with nothing else to do, or the doctor’s wives. But still. It was strange, Daniel thought.

Leonard got up to give his pleased-flustered introduction to Clemmie and welcome to the audience – especially the young people, who he hoped would get a lot out of the experience. Clemmie smiled widely as she took her seat in front of the group and introduced herself in less glowing terms. The Taboo and You: Poetry, Passion and different ways of seeing the world.

“You might feel,” she began, “especially if you’re young, that you’re the only person in the world who enjoys - reading poetry. It may feel like everyone else is off reading novels, or even non-fiction. But there is a large community of people who enjoy poetry, and the older you get, the easier it becomes to find these people. Loving what you love is a perfectly normal and natural thing, and it should not be discouraged.”

Was this… it couldn’t be. Daniel trained his eyes onto Leonard, who noticed his gaze and raised a sneaky eyebrow before turning back to Clemmie.

“Sharing poetry between girlfriends is of course much more kindly looked-upon than when a boy shares poetry with his friends, which has always been a great shame, as some of our greatest poets have in fact been men. Though of course, Miss De Beauvoir has more to say on that topic,” which got a laugh from some of the more well-turned out women in the group. “Poets have taken part in most of the world’s great civilisations, from Ancient Greece to modern times.

“Our best records of conflicts in this century come from poets. But still, there is resistance against young people who want to take part in this culture. Your parents would probably not be happy if you turned to them and told them you wanted to be a poet. Partly this resistance comes from material concerns – there isn’t much money in this career path, sadly, and thus reaching the same standards as other people is difficult – and partly it comes from prejudice against - poetry.”

At that, Daniel nearly wondered aloud if this was fooling anyone. But the crowd seemed perfectly unperturbed by any of it. Perhaps it was all in his head.

“To find communities of poets, you may have to move to the bigger cities and towns, though there are poetry-lovers everywhere. Even here, in Grantchester. Isn’t that right, Mr Finch?”

Holy shit, Daniel thought, she’s going to get us run out of town.

“I couldn’t possibly comment.” Leonard said, and the crowd laughed.

What the hell.

The talk then turned to an analysis of different styles of poetry and how to best read and enjoy it, which seemed perfectly unobjectionable, though who knew what subtext Daniel missed. He felt a little insane; was he the only one who noticed?

After the genteel tea and crustless sandwiches, Daniel waited outside the library, turning his face up to the sun. Leonard usually got waylaid after these things by people asking him about all sorts, and Daniel hated waiting around discreetly in the background. The breeze blocks of the library were hot under his hands, a breeze stirring his hair. Moment of stillness. He felt himself breath.

“Well!” He hears, and Daniel opened his eyes to see Clemmie pull a cigarette out of her handbag and lean back next to him. “Do you want one?”

“No thanks.” Daniel said. “That was a talk and a half.”

“I felt like someone was going to come in and arrest me,” Clemmie laughed.

“So I wasn’t reading into it too much.” Daniel said.

“No, no. We thought – well, it was a late night at the – oh, how was Brighton, actually, did you get the shots you wanted? You’re playing a dangerous game, you know… where was I? Oh yeah. We thought, you know, well, there must be _something_ we can do for all these poor youngsters. So, voila, here we are. I just hope they got it, you know.”

Daniel smiled despite himself. How typical of them both.

“I’m sure they did. But tell me, have you heard about the latest scandal in the village?” He asked, as she exhaled deeply through an answering smile. The sun was shining, she’d somehow gotten away with it, and now there was gossip to be had.

Daniel was halfway through recounting the tale of the university lecturer’s messy divorce proceedings, punctuated with his own opinions of the whole affair, when Leonard and the librarian finally emerged, flinching a little into the brightness.

Clemmie excused herself – we’re still having dinner at ours, though, yes? Good, OK, better get a move on with that then, goodness – and hurried off with the other woman, both of them cheerily waving and shouting hearty see-you-laters.

Daniel turned to Leonard, who was still smiling after them both.

“Do you have some time before you have to go back to work? I know you’re busy this week.” Leonard said. Daniel wanted to take his hand and swing it between them, to make him laugh. Wanted to make fun of the hats some of the ladies were wearing, their middle-class society manners in the tiny library.

“I don’t, really,” Daniel said, feeling like the worst form of life when Leonard masked his disappointment with a cheerful oh, well. “You could walk me back to the studio, though?”

“It would be my pleasure,” Leonard said, and they set off into the sunshine.

“Helping the kids?” Daniel asked, as they rounded the corner of the library and onto the main road. He felt Leonard pull away slightly, to put a discreet amount of space between them. Whatever Clemmie said, they still had to do that; the young people they were addressing most likely would as well. It made Daniel so tired.

“They get nothing else.” Leonard said. “No information. I suppose I don’t have to tell you… I suppose most of them didn’t even get it.”

“A few of them must have.” Daniel said.

It was touching, really, the earnestness and the humour with which he’d made the effort. It made him smile. Sometimes he understood Leonard’s urge to give to thanks to something greater than themselves; the concept of miracles was clearer to him now.

“Well, even if one of them goes home and thinks about it… it’s important to have a good idea of yourself before you head out into that world, don’t you think? God knows I could have done with it.”

“Of course.” Daniel said. “And all that aside, it was a good talk. I liked that third poem. I’d never heard it before.”

“Oh, you did? Good, good.” Leonard said, absently, though he seemed pleased. “I have a copy floating around, I think.”

A germ of an idea swam into Daniel’s head, as the studio loomed unfortunately up at the end of the road.

“Who wrote it, again?” He asked, to which Leonard tapped the side of his nose, and changed the subject sharpish. They might let him do the Nativity again, apparently, provided he could show he’d learned his lesson by helping out with the end-of-year concert at the school. Nothing was really easy those days, and Leonard certainly had bigger and more encompassing problems, but he was putting a lot of thought into the best way of going about it, and it was sweet to lean against the door of the studio and tell him not to overthink it. But it would have been sweeter to kiss him goodbye.

The mystery of the third poem was solved on their way home from Clemmie and Jo’s, when Leonard pressed it into his hand before slipping into the vicarage, unseen.

A sheet of foolscap, in his handwriting. “For Daniel,” there, right at the top.

Daniel remembered the blank A4 frame he still had, somewhere around the house.

> November: I sure hope you don’t mind

Daniel Marlowe was reluctant to play into the stereotype more than he had to. There were certainly things that he could embrace; a fondness for Brighton (people really would forsake the most lovely things for fear of others’ assumptions) and he knew a lot about art – he was an artist, for pete’s sake, there was a certain level of professional responsibility to keep up with the times – and his clothes were perhaps a little on the fashionable side (especially, he thought ruefully, if you factored in his age) but he couldn’t help it if everyone else in Grantchester dressed as if they were still rationing cotton.

There were other things too; quirks of speech and particular likes and dislikes he sank back into when he was around some of his more London-centric friends. And that was different, too than what people thought. Always sincere, but not always serious; meaning everything he said while being perfectly aware that it was all style, in the end. It could get tiring, living that way, but not as tiring as having to watch his mouth lest he let slip a stray reference to Yves Klein or Jean Arp. Heaven forfend. Daniel entered the record shop.

Even in this trivial area, he had to think so carefully. The second guessing it all – do I like this because I am this way, or because it’s good, or do I like it because I like it, and if so what’s the meaningful difference? It used to have him in knots. Record shops were particularly trying; making the decision on which record he really wanted, and then which would be the best to get, leaving empty-handed. He was tired of it. He was tired of opera, of Beethoven symphonies. Better something else, something a little more modern, but not the awful trite pop stuff they churned out… his eyes alighted on the jazz singers (Ah, Mr Chambers, where are you now) and the new display there.

Well, it wasn’t illegal to like Judy Garland.

But still, he wasn’t up to the stares he’d get buying it.

So instead, a pretty little Puccini thing that he’d survive without having. Better luck next time, Old Boy, he thought grumpily. If only London wasn’t so hard to live in, if only he’d been the type of man who could thrive in the city. Daniel supposed it was the kind of thing that got its teeth into you early. But nobody minded in London if you bought books about art or music or anything of that sort. That kind of thing was not something people cared about - if you went to the right shops.

It had been the lack of seasonal change that got him; the lack of change and how nothing good ever stayed the same. Grantchester was by no means perfect (despite Rupert Brooke’s ode to the contrary) but there was at least space for a garden.

But _God_ how he hated the Winter here! The dirt of the road and the constant gales and the sick people everywhere, and business being slow (though not so slow as it would cause problems) and _urgh,_ and nobody would _ever_ see his real work because…

He was in a bad mood the whole way home, and then Leonard rang, and he was in a bad mood with him too, so much so that he picked a fight (it didn’t feel like that at the time, of course, but upon reflection that was exactly what he’d done) and Leonard hung up sounding hurt.

“Well if you’re going to be like that, I’ve got a lot of work to catch up on here,” he said, snippily. “I’m sure you can occupy yourself until Thursday. I’ll be gone all day tomorrow.”

Daniel had forgotten about the appointment Leonard had with the Manchester solicitor. Could he get anything right?

“Oh, God. I’m sorry, Len. Good luck tomorrow,” he said, and meant it, but Leonard didn’t reply before hanging up.

He spent the next day and a half feeling sorry for himself and listening to the opera he bought with only half the pleasure he usually derived from Puccini. Went for a walk and felt better, but not so much better that he couldn’t seriously contemplate lying in bed and maybe moaning aloud.

He pulled himself together and started to make dinner early, which was just as well, because Leonard rang the doorbell about two hours before he was expected.

“You got in early!” Daniel said, and then noticed Leonard’s pale face, standing to attention opposite him. They walked into the kitchen, where Leonard sat down, maybe out of habit.

“Appointment took less time than I thought. Solicitor thought it was probably best to tell me to my face – had my father’s permission to do it, and everything… turns out I’ve been _disowned_ ,” he said, incredulous. “I really thought that kind of thing didn’t happen in real life.”

“Oh my God, Len,” Daniel said, suppressing a nervous laugh at the shock of it. He sat down next to him. “That’s awful.”

Leonard shrugged. The small frown he sometimes wore when reading was focussed on the kitchen table. Daniel extended his hand and Leonard took it, placing it on the table.

“Is it awful if I’m… pleased about it?” he asked. “I’m not beholden to him, anymore, and I didn’t – I did my best. I don’t ever have to see him again.”

“Of _course_ it’s not awful!” Daniel said. “You did more than most people would.”

“I’m sad that I don’t have a relationship with him.” Leonard said. “Especially, knowing what I know… it would have been nice to – but it doesn’t really matter because he doesn’t, I can’t force it. And now I don’t have to, anymore. But here, I haven’t even asked you how you are! I have a present for you from Manchester, hang on…”

He left the room to go get his case. Only Leonard would have left a meeting where he was told that he was poorer than he thought he was and then go buy someone _else_ a present, especially so close to Christmas.

“I’m better now you’re here,” Daniel said, cheerfully. “Is meat and two veg OK, for tonight? I wasn’t feeling very creative.”

“A man after my own heart,” Leonard called in from the hall. “You know I don’t need creativity in the kitchen. Ah, here…”

He came back in with a pink record sleeve in his hands, and a smile to match its illustration.

And what a beautiful smile it was, Holy Christ… Daniel imagined him buying it, unashamed of his taste, unbothered by others looking at him, content in his purchase… thinking of Daniel, who rarely talked of his fondness for Ms Garland lest he be thought a cliché. But Leonard knew, Leonard listened to him…

“It’s too late for your birthday and too early for Christmas, but I know how you hate this time of year. Oh dear, it’s not the wrong one, is it?”

This startled Daniel into movement. He moved toward him, took the record and put it on the table.

“No, no… you were right. As usual, sweetheart.”

Leonard’s eyes shone above the smile that had curved into something gentler.

“Well,” he began, but Daniel couldn’t resist kissing him then, even if the parsnips were beginning to burn. He felt Leonard’s little laugh in his mouth, and the soft wool of his good jumper. Oh, let the West End burn down in a shower of paisley, let all the Drag Queens in England and Wales run through his living room. He could live with being a stereotype, if he could have this too.

Leonard ran his hand up his arm and then under his shirt.

“I have until eight o’clock,” he said, voice low.

It was quarter to six.

“I’m suddenly not so hungry,” Daniel said, to hear Leonard laugh again, “if you weren’t so tall, I’d carry you up the stairs myself.”

“You’re too small and I am _far_ too delicate,” Leonard said, and then tapped the record as it lay on the table. “Do I have Judy to thank for this sudden impulse of romantic feeling?”

Daniel laughed.

“You do and you don’t.” He said.

“Well, thank you Judy,” Leonard said, and Daniel had to agree, as Leonard brought his hand up to brush against his collarbone.

“You seem out of sorts,” he said kindly.

“I’m tired,” Daniel said truthfully, and felt he might even be able to explain what he meant by it. And then the parsnips really started to smoke.

> November continued: the whole strength of your body set

“You said you were tired. But I don’t think you meant physically.”

Afterwards. The pleasant musty-head sort of feeling he didn’t know existed in real life until recently.

“Not physically.”

Leonard’s bare arm over his own chest.

“Hm.” He said, mouth pressed into shoulder.

“I think, if we’re caught I don’t really mind, you’re worth going to prison over. And then I think about how sad that is.”

“It is sad.” Leonard said and he sounded serious even though he was still pressed into Daniel. “I find it hard too.”

“And all the rows and fights we have because somebody said something or I think you’re too cautious or you think I’m too reckless, it’s like the deck is stacked, Leonard, and I love you so much but there’s a part of me wondering _how_ I can _,_ and there’s a part of me wondering… how can we _cope,_ I _hate_ this hiding. I _hate it._ ”

There was a long silence. Leonard took the sheet in his hand and started to worry it a little, his skin warm on Daniel’s. He was vaguely sweaty, still, but it was a pleasant sort of feeling.

“I hate it too.” He said, quiet. Daniel nearly strained his neck to get a better look at him. “Yes, even me. You’ve made such a difference to my life, darling. I want people to see it.”

Daniel felt like two wires had suddenly disconnected in his head.

“And here I am shovelling more shit onto you, on the day you get disowned!” He said, and laughed despondently, sitting up. He tried to stop and breath for a second; he felt like he was about to cry.

Leonard sat up with him.

“I’ll stay the night,” he said.

“I couldn’t ask you to muck up your work…”

“Don’t worry about it. Will owes me a fair few favours by now. You’re hungry and you’re tired, so we’ll have dinner and then we’ll go to bed. Hey?”

I can do that, Daniel thought. One step at a time. So long as you’re beside me.

> A Book Review from the Nineties (the act of holding in place)

_Brighton and Hove Rejoice! Forty Years of Queers,_ Daniel Marlowe, pub. Éditions Périfériques, RRP £35

Review by Ciara Addams for the Guardian, 14/06/1998

In reviewing photography, particularly photography dealing with the period of time from the late forties to the early eighties, the critic has to be careful. Much ink has already been spilled about the iconic imagery, fashions, faces and locations of the era, and to repeat them here would be passé. What a pleasure, then, to find what is often so lacking in collections dealing with this timeframe; a new, original, vibrant and challenging body of work; as useful to the historian as to the art critic, and perhaps most useful of all to those searching for a community with roots in the past.

Marlowe’s genius – I do not hesitate to use the word – lies in his ability to see the movement in a frame and capture it. As a result, each photograph, all judiciously chosen, betrays a sense of who its subject is, and how they react to the lens. However, this is not to downplay the technical mastery he clearly also possesses, or his ability to set (or discover) a scene.

And who are the subjects? A mélange of the best and brightest Brighton nightlife had to offer – long-term fixtures and those who dazzled for a shorter time, the endless parade of young bright things, the drag queens and musical performers in the better-known clubs in Kemptown. All this, while captivating, would not be enough to set this book above similar collections emerging in the US.

Marlowe also decides, however, to focus in on the smaller figures in the community, both in their homes and at their local haunts. The result is art that has as much to say about class and family as it does flashy nightlife.

It is impossible not to be moved as faces recognizable as young and carefree in the fifties continue to age and develop. Most of the subjects from those early chapters are now OAPs, and there is a mournful tone to the closing sections of the book. Not just for the aging dancers of the fifties - Marlowe has been an outspoken activist against government failures in healthcare, and the effects of the HIV/AIDS epidemic are devastating in the understated manner in which they are presented. The sequencing of the photographs is nothing short of miraculous.

It is also miraculous that the collection survived at all: throughout the period in which he worked on this project, the artist faced persecution from both the police and the public, including an incident in which, according to one unassuming caption, he was forced to bribe an officer of the law for the return of his equipment. The stories the photographs tell are not all morbid, though. Far from it. The energy and love in the community is matched only by that of the photographer, especially in a sequence that stands alone from the rest: “Our Shoes” features the changing fates of different pairs of footwear (the artist’s and his unnamed partner’s) as they take up residence beside Marlowe’s front door over the project’s duration.

That Marlowe, now 75, has waited this long to publish speaks to a streak of artistic restraint that has served him well. The photographs, stretching back to before decriminalisation to Madonna’s first hit single, are a record of a changing time and place, one which anyone with an interest in the queer community, history, or photography, must experience. A triumph.

-

for L.E.F

Thank you for your honesty.

And for everything else.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Titles from [Elizabeth Bishop](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/47536/one-art), [Jack Spicer](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/51260/a-second-train-song-for-gary), [Thom Gunn](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/57038/the-hug), [Adrienne Riche](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/51092/what-kind-of-times-are-these), and [this song](https://genius.com/Billie-holiday-i-cant-give-you-anything-but-love-lyrics) memorably covered by Judy herself.
> 
> Find me on tumblr if you want to complain! [@meryton-etc](https://meryton-etc.tumblr.com/)


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